


Started Thinking Love's A Loaded Gun

by eruditeprincess



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 19:04:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8221597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eruditeprincess/pseuds/eruditeprincess
Summary: Their love story, told through both their eyes; a series of tiny vignettes looking into their lives.Title taken from Run and Hide by Sabrina Carpenter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this makes no sense whatsoever, but I needed to write this in order to relieve some stress from school.  
> Sixth form is hard. Applying to uni is stressful.  
> So this was born of a need I had. I hope this at least makes sense to someone. This was inspired by me listening to Sabrina Carpenter's Run and Hide.  
> Leave kudos or comments if you want. By this point, I think I'm just doing this to let a part of me free.  
> Usual stuff of I don't own anything so don't sue, tumblr is erudite-princess, hope I don't die.  
> If you enjoy this, then yeah. If not, then that is okay.

Saving the world was so often a solitary job, that sometimes he felt like she forgot who pulled the levers with her, who made the same decisions as her and had to live with the consequences too.

 

(He sometimes found himself looking at her, once the ALIE threat was over and done with, hating her for the three months when she left him, left all of them, but then realising he couldn’t hate her any more)

 

She cut her hair. The long golden strands, still streaked with mud and red dye and stars know what else, soon surrounded the floor around her and she felt like she was suddenly lighter, like the act of cutting her hair to shoulder length was cathartic. She felt like he’d probably hate it, see it as not being her, but when she saw him next, their eyes connecting in the hallways around Arkadia, or in the refectory, or across Raven’s workshop, he just gave her a small smile.

 

(She guessed it was better than the words spat at her by Jasper, the cautious glances by the adults at her, the awe and shock of the grounders as they all whispered _Wanheda_ in her wake, children scurrying as she walked over to a group to talk strategy.

 

He was the only one who saw her as human, and broken, and alone, just as he always had seen right through her)

 

He started crawling into her tent at night to talk about his day with her, give her a real friend among the pretenders, the worshippers and the haters. Raven had found an old music player and found a way to restore it, along with create headphones, so often he brought it to her, letting her golden hair splay out over his chest and the headphones tangle as their soft breaths and the gentle guitar melodies leaked out, breaking the cool silence in the air.

 

(His favourite song seemed to perfectly encapsulate their journey, even up to the crooning of _I wanna, I wanna be loved_. It reminded him that whatever they were right now was _them_ )

 

She visited him during his guard shifts, during the moments when she couldn’t stand to be around the bitterness of many Arkadians or the apologetic looks of her mother. They would sit there, and occasionally they’d hold hands, his large hands engulfing her small ones but both sharing the same amount of blood, the same weight of the lives sacrificed by their hands, hers with small freckles and lines caked in mud and his with calluses and scars but both fitting together perfectly. Her hands were always cold but his were always warm and they evened out each other.

 

(Sometimes he thought everyone thought they were together. He supposed they were, in a way, and considered how she always collapsed in his tent or him in hers, neither of them ever sleeping alone and one always waking up because of what haunted their dreams, the other helping them calm down their breathing to a steady level. Abby sometimes gave him a pitying look as he snuck out of his princess’ tent, sweat sticky on his forehead, but usually he just stared her down)

 

He was shocked when, as they had settled into their usual routine in her tent, she pressed a small kiss on his cheek, before snuggling on his chest, gripping his t-shirt with an iron grasp and humming the familiar tune of his favourite song.

 

(She told him once that he wasn’t a monster, and now she sees him and sees the stars reflected in his eyes and the constellations in his freckles, and wants to tell him he is a god among men, or maybe even a fallen star.

 

Maybe they are both fallen stars, and that is why they are so out of place)

 

She took him to the glowing butterfly grove one night, when neither of them can sleep. He had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and the light of the butterflies lit up his face in an ethereal blue light, and she found herself pressing her lips to his, just to see what it felt like. It was gentle and soft, and his lips were slightly chapped, but to her it felt like they fit.

 

(He never believed in soulmates, or one true love, but when she kissed him so softly, just like a feather caressing his lips, he felt like something snapped into place, like suddenly they were just fitting together perfectly)

 

She started holding his hand more, and pecking his lips before he went out on expeditions, or embracing him easily. In return, his lips touched her neck during their embraces, a tiny peck against her shoulder or collarbone or neck just reminding him that she was real, she was in his arms and safe.

 

(The nights he felt like running, and the nights she felt like hiding, they gripped each other a little tighter, their bodies fitting like a glove with each other, letting themselves revel in the smell and touch of the other)

 

The nuclear disaster is averted, and he takes her to bed, his hands roaming over her body and her fingers exploring the places that made him groan, discovering that his Achilles heel was his hip, as a brush of her lips over his hip could elicit a sound that made her thighs clench. He loved her neck and shoulders, sucking bruises into the sensitive skin as she moaned softly against him, her hand clutching his arse. It was always consensual.

 

(They were both terrified of making the other do something they didn’t want to do; their entire relationship was based on their mutual trust)

 

He almost shed tears when he witnessed her walking towards him in a soft, floaty white dress, a dress so at odds with the rest of her, scars and tanned skin juxtaposing the innocence of her dress. He gave her a simple silver band, and she gave him the same, and that was that. Her hands were clasped with his, and he realised the weight of the forgiveness they had given each other over the years they were on the ground. He realised that the day they were celebrating marked a new journey, and he felt strange, until he realised what the feeling in his chest was.

 

He was finally at ease.

 

(He told her on their honeymoon in Floukru territory, and she laughed in that low, soft way of hers, her smile almost splitting her face as she linked their fingers, matching wedding bands and everything, together, whispering sweet nothings into his ear)

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, very disjointed.  
> Yay.


End file.
